dermalhighwayfandomcom-20200214-history
Arion
On this place, there is no sun in the sky. Oh, to be sure, little one, the sun is there. It is just on the other side of the world. It’s what’s called a blue giant, an intensely bright star, and is none too distant. The light of its crown seems to lick up from the horizon, as if a tremendous blue white brushfire were burning smokelessly across the rocks in the distance. My Rider tells me that this display is caused by the intense radiation of the blue giant washing over and interacting with Arcodia's magnetic field, like water washing over a great glass sphere. It is this shuddering, inconstant illumination that paints the landscape, a vast expanse of plain ringed by countless towers and canyons, staining the gray stone with midnight, azure and chalk. Vast white cathedrals built to testament the scouring rains rise to meet the gaze, their dimensions deceptive in the cavorting light. Nothing here, it would seem, is reliable, save the perpetuating flicker against the clouds. A circle of fierce weather embraces this world, marking the passage from night to day and from day to night with killing rains, an eternal storm that comes with the dawn. The Riders have a name for this weather. They call it the Thercodial Band, and say that it is caused by temperature variations, wet and dry winds meeting, magnetic fluctuations, and other things I cannot begin to explain. The two-legs speak in many strange tongues over the course of a day, my child, and can see things no Dante could begin to, and blessed is she that has a Rider to tell her of such things. One day, you shall have a Rider, too. Though we count ourselves as Arcodian beasts now, I would tell you that this is not our homeworld, only the place where we are breathing, and though you were born here, your heart’s blood flows from a farther source than this soil. Our kind of Tulaq come from a planet called Nirim, a hard run across the Longline, a place that is in some ways like this one, but nowhere near it in time. There, in dry deadlands was I born, under a sky brightened by many suns, and it was in similar hills, in some same warm darknesses, that my pack made its kills, gat its young, told its stories and broke its stones, even as we do here now. We reached here by traveling the Dermal Highway, by way of the place we call “ The Longline, “, traversing the very Skin of the YESbeast to reach here, and it was across this that we carried our Riders and their things, so that they might build places for them to live on other worlds, as habeg, the two-legs, are wont to do. After a hunt, when our bellies are full, we tell stories to one another, like my dam told me on long nights there. As I am telling you them here, now. My dam told stories of the Kolnegck, big things rooted in the ground, thick and ropy, that lay under the dirt in loose coils to snatch at the feet of the passing buck as he moved over it unseen in the grass, to be pulled, strangling, beneath the sand. She told me that this is what became of my father, who had no Rider. She told of the open plains that spread out to the east of our canyons, where the Bush’ree, our cousins, grew fat and slick on grasses and bore many calves for the eating, and told me of the pact that Shagalk ManyTeats, the AllMother of the Bush’ree, made with Tobak TeethShower, the Tulaq AllFather, that we might eat of the Bush’ree what we can catch, and that this is why they bear so many calves. We recount these tales to one another in the hours after their meat is gone. Retelling the tales of their capture keep us close to one another. We tell stories to our young, to tell them of who they are, to tell them of what we know, to tell them of where we’ve lived, and where they are living now; to tell them what they need to know to live here among the stone. We tell stories to the old to keep their memories fresh, their ties true. And we tell stories to our Riders to bring them in closer to us, so they might always know who we are. We tell stories to tell them, to celebrate who we are, and what we will become, and so I shall tell you one now, so that you might know them as well. You are a Tulaq. The Tulaq are a seed of the First, called Cre-oten the White, Carrier, SunSwimmer. We are all the daughters of Dire, the seventh daughter of Cre-oten, as you are my daughter, and I am the daughter of my dam. And all of the young of the First together call themselves the Dante, The People of the White. Here, on this place we call Arcodia, dwell the Li’chee, and it is the story of how the first Li’chee came to be that I shall tell you now. For about the Li’chee you must know, now that you leave the safety of the Rider’s base. Here in the rock, no one can protect you from the Li’chee while you sleep, save the sharp eyes of your dam’s Rider and his quick hand, for the Li’chee is Silence itself, and patience is with him. And, to the Riders we warn, fight sleep for all you have, for many of you have found death on a Li’chee’s claws, and found it no less sweet, and no less final than we. Let be it so that we might find ourselves in debt to you once again for the keep of our lives, and that your strikes be sure and true. Never sleep in the stone alone, child. * * * This is the story of Arion, the first Li'chee, whose Dam was Cre-oten, the first DimIrian... Cre-oten swam deep in her efforts to escape , and in these travels it was on Arcodia that she dwelt for a time. the captive and unwilling consort of Malik, the first Son, whose name is also Many Shaped, EyeTricker, ThoughtTwister; the AllFather of the Wrathree. He, the first Son, caught the First Dam on the Longline, pulled Her beneath the Skin to bring Her to the ground here, on Arcodia. He coveted his mother, having by his treacheries slain the mate She had already borne for him, that one called Annaldea, so he pursued Cre-oten here into the darkness to capture Her. He made himself into a great storm of flashing light and sound, many colors licking through his mists, and Her hooves rang out like bells on the rock as She fled from it among the towers, Her crippled wings unable to find the wind, for the ManyShaped had rent Her splendid plumage to tatters with his bites. He chased her into a deep valley, and there, through his power, pulled up a great dome of stone to secure Her prisoner, and such was his depravity that when Her heat came upon Her, he grasped Her neck in his teeth, clutched Her sweating sides, and mounted Her, his Dam, and on Her he got his son. With Her belly growing round and the Mother Madness growing with it, the EyeTricker set Her loose to wander. Knowing he could not hold Her any longer, and knowing that she would not flee Arcodia with the birth upon Her, he followed at a distance, invisible to Her, to wait the whelping of his wrongfathered son. Malik’s get on the First was Arion, the Eighth Son. Such was the First’s agonies in the birth of Arion that She died for a night and a day, and Arion suckled the milk from Her corpse without knowing warmth or heartbeat. And, when She awoke from Her swoon, again and again did his claws pull the blood from Her heart, again and again did Her stone split asunder, again and again did She die, The First, whom death does not know. Such was the pleasure of his mouth that when She awakened, The First found She could not move until Her milk was gone from Her, and his claws supped Her stone many times before that was through. But, She was the First, and death could not forever cover Her. Each time She was released, She would breathe again, only to discover that the Eighth Son had never left, that his claws still pumped at Her heart. Such was the First’s horror at the face of Arion, stained by his sire’s sin, of Arion’s body, naked and twisted by his lust, that She swore She would bear him no mate to spread his seed, and this is why there are no female of his kind. Such was the First’s shame, that She had borne a wrongfathered’s fawn, that She struck Herself barren to Malik, that he might get no more Sons on this One, and She closed Her eyes once more, so as not to behold this stain on Her motherhood. She closed her teats to Arion, and when his claws gave Her pleasure, She fled from it eagerly into the stillness of Kian, Her heart dead to him, Her wings with no heat, Her stone an empty shell. Indeed, in his feeding, Arion finally slew the AllMother, and what of Her he did not eat bled its way back, into the YES. Being a thing with thin hide and no hair, when his dam was dead, Arion slunk to the rocks outside the stone cavern to find heat, and there he slept. And so, with this happened, the Many Shaped found the place where the First gave birth, seeking to gather his son, for he thought he might take him from Her and raise him to his own ends. He knew the powers of the Morphord, The FirstFather, the WrongFather, and he sought to capture His power in a sin once more on his Dam, hoping to summon that power through this son, Arion. He was prepared to mesmerize the Mother with his tricks once again, perhaps to fashion a facsimile of the fawn, to tug at Her teats until he had made off with the true little one, for he knew she was still no doubt milkmad from the birth, and he loathed to fight Her outright, knowing he would lose were he to face Her. But, he looked about the cave, seeking his son, but did not find him, for he had hidden himself away before Malik had come, away from his mother’s empty tits, Her empty heart, and now he lay dreaming of his sire. When Malik saw the One dead, he grew very afraid, for Malik did not understand his dam’s silence, her emptiness. He did not understand how Arion could be nowhere to be seen, and he cursed himself a fool in a strong tongue; at thinking to capture the power of the Wrongfathered. At the sound of his curses, the MilkStealer awoke. If there is one thing that Malik is known for, it is his taste for a scent. Wrathree can smell things acrost the very Skin itself, find the scent of Nothing and follow it Nowhere; and a Wrathree here on Arcodia now is bound to smell a Li’chee unless she is not paying attention. And with knowing what is to know now, the Wrathree would be paying attention... but then...ah now, then, it was different. Malik knew nothing of the sort. He knew nothing of Li’chee. He cast about this way and that outside of the mouth of the First’s lair, thinking, “ He is but a fawn. How far could he have gotten, wrongfathered though he is? “ But his tongue could find no trace of him. He asked of the wind, had it seen Arion? It said ,” Yes, it had. “ But, it had forgotten where, or how far. He asked the Milkspot that grew in the shale of the hill: Have you seen Arion? It said “ No, you fool, I have not, for I have no eyes. “ “But you have ears, then, do you not?” He said, and it agreed. “Yes,” it said, “I have heard his whispers.” He asked the stone at the floor of the First’s lair: Have you seen Arion? It said “ Yes. “ “ I have. “ And beneath Malik’s gaze, the stone rose up tall before him. It became Arion, The Eyeless, MilkStealer, NOMothered, and the father quaked in fear at the feet of his son, for he had looked upon nothing like him. He had been the very rock he had stood on, and now Malik knew that he had met his match, met the one who could deceive even him. Arion’s face was snub nosed and long in the lower jaw, chipped tusks set under a pointed snout that sniffed and snuffled. His limbs, slender from his ribs, bore skinwings that made a pouch of him, like a bat. Thick fingertips jerked and jumped to the rhythm of Malik’s heart, pounding as he stood there staring at them. While his sire’s hide shone a glossy black, Arion possessed a clever, gray color, that shifted and danced in Twilight’s hues, and before Malik’s eyes, his hide seemed at once to -be- the rock. But, most terrible of all were his claws. They were long and thin, just the perfect length to find the stone in the center of our hearts, hollowed to feed our stolen blood to his own heart, and lethal promises welled like dew on the tips. Promises of eternal bliss, of pleasures both wicked and forbidden, of submission, and sweet, sweet murders to be found in hidden places. The fountain of ultimate fulfillment flowed from those claws, with all the prophecies cast into it calling back with death. Malik beheld these lastly, these claws, and it was on them that he found his gaze must linger. His throat went dry as a gulch floor, and his chest ached for the augury in those claws, for, it was in these that he saw the WrongFather. It was in these that he found the power he had sought. It was through them, in ashen voices, that the NO, that ever-eating blackness, spoke to him. And, to his horror, he heard the word it said, and understood it. Listen. it said. Listen. And so the Many Shaped listened. What did he hear? I am not certain. The story does not say. Perhaps he heard some terrible stanza from the symphony of Silence, the part of the Song that is closest to the NO, telling of heroes long dead and gone, fallen prey to its never ending hunger. Perhaps he heard premonitions, the gasping cries of a hundred thousand fawns, his own sons and grandsons, those seeds of his blood, the Wrathree, dying on these precious pillars he had sought to raise for his own WrongFather. Or, perhaps he heard of his own death, foretold by his son’s weapons. As it was, The Many Shaped stood as if he, too, had become part of the rock, and he stared frozen at the claws’ words. It was then that his seed, the HeartThief, stabbed him. Sharp... Sharp things... The point of the thirsty tips broke the river of his Belief, and on those pinnacles, The ThoughtTwister learned of death. And so that is the end then? The softKiller took him, did he not? That must be the End, for there is no greater End than that one, on the Li’chee’s claws, is there? But, then again, with Wrathree, there is never an answer to such a question. For it is well known that Wrathree bite for the belly. Thus the Eyeless One might have learned of his father’s own talent, of the Breath of The One that carries all the Wrathree, of the Manyshaped’s own father and his Name. And the EyeTricker might have made his escape on his Dam’s breath. Or through his Sire’s Sin. And left the Eyeless there alone. I do not know if he ate his father’s stone, if he took his father’s life, or if Malik escaped. But this I do know. The Li’chee are the sons of Arion. They are the stealers of milk, killers of suckling children, the patient butchers. Malik’s lying tongue gives them backs that coax the eyes with their deceptive colors and textures. They have no scent. They are the ones who are the stone... They are the ones who lie in wait, my child, so listen well: Pray that, if the Li’chee finds you, it is with his claws that he silences your heart, that it is with his claws that he kills you. That it is only your blood and stone he seeks to quench his lust. For he pays for the service of your death well, with the most exquisite pleasures. Pray that he does not come to cover you, and quicken you with his unholy seed. For, as Arion knew The First as his Dam, so he knew the shape of the Tulaq, and it is from Tulaq does that he takes his wives, though it is also said that forever does Arion seek The Red Daughter of Annaldea, the last borne by the Wrathree Allmother, to turn the tides of Sin back on Malik and all his ilk... to have this powerful Wrathree daughter bear the third Wrongfathered’s Son and kill them all. For the First bore no daughter for his mate, and there are no female of his kind. His doomed wives give him only sons. It is said that he blames all this on the EyeTricker, that he has no does, and would see Malik’s ilk suffer only the most horrible death he could grant them for it. A Wrathree sow holds nothing but terror of the Eighth son, for she knows that he will give her no death other than that of bearing his seed, his claws’ pleasures never will she know, and that her death will come with the terrible knowledge of the abomination that she has borne. So the sons of Arion are like unto him, springing forth from the wombs of their dead mothers, and pulling the milk from their cold jugs. And they all seek the Tulaq females as their mates, so that they may do homage to their Sire, the one who was Wrongfathered before them. It is said that Li’chee delight in finding the dam suckling young. That they let her go out to water, and wait beneath her fawns for her to return so that they can steal her milk while it is warm. It is said that a Li’chee can slay a fawn without waking it, or the dam it suckles. It is said that one can survive the first stab of a Li’chee’s claws, but not the second. It is said that a Li’chee’s claws speak to you while they lie in your heart, and that, even if you should escape him, you will have the memory of them as long as you live, and you will want them to return. It is said that a Li’chee’s claws are portals into the NO, and that it is the NO’s cold you feel when he eats your soul, and the NO’s whispers you hear as you die. It is said that a Li’chee will command you not to die. So come inside, back to the Rider’s base, where the Li’chee cannot go, little one. And remember what I have told you. Never go to sleep here without your pack about you, and a Rider on your back to guard you.